


Warlord Problems

by MlleMusketeer



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Awkwardness, Comedy, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Seduction, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron is in heat. Megatron values his privacy. So he annexes Optimus's favorite reading spot. Optimus does not take this kindly. But what can you do with a warlord three times your size who's refusing to budge? Snark him out of your cave?</p><p>Optimus is certainly going to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Megatron snarled and bristled his plating, staring around the stone chamber that currently served as a berthroom. On his HUD, a small symbol blinked, red and urgent. 

He didn’t need that fragging symbol. His frame was doing an excellent job of communicating the situation all on its own. In the privacy of this cave—and he’d made sure it was private by flattening a bit of human mining equipment and putting it over the entrance—he could at least let all his cooling fans roar. Damp rocks around him had begun to steam. Harder to deal with was the hot itch of arousal between his legs. 

Megatron was not some young, blushing officer. He was well attuned to his frame’s behaviors and demands, and kept a good optic on his heat cycles, which were, at his age, both regular and predictable. He had not been due for at least another thousand stellar cycles. But this was _not_ his old frame, thanks to the Allspark, and it had different ideas. 

It had even had a _seal_ , which was insulting all by itself. He’d taken care of that about a megacycle ago, but hadn’t yet worked himself up to an overload satisfying enough to grant even temporary relief. Of course, if there had been anyone worth interfacing on this ridiculous rock, that would have been simple. Or if he had access to the false spike with a signal transmitter embedded in it that would fool his systems into thinking he was actually fragging someone. Making do with his fingers alone wasn’t fooling anything. 

And it had been a full megacycle and Lugnut was sure to get worried. Since the rest of his systems were broadcasting arousal—field, pheromones, fans, _everything_ —interruption wasn’t ideal. He would _love_ to frag Lugnut right now, and it would be very surprising if Lugnut did not want to frag him, if he ran into the—was the human term _baseball bat?_ —of frustration and arousal in the room. What he would love significantly less would be explaining to General Strika why he’d seduced her consort. Heat cycles were certainly urgent, but they didn’t turn you into a mechanimal; he was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be a fatal conversation, at least for him, but he had no desire to test that.

Blitzwing didn’t do interface out of general disinterest, the only thing all three of his personalities could agree on. Starscream was an undead abomination, and his recent habit of putting bombs everywhere did not exactly predispose him to be a considerate berth partner. Which left Megatron with pretty much no one, unless he wanted to frag one of the Autobots. 

He briefly imagined the expression on that little Prime’s face, if he made the proposal. Embarrassment, sputtering indignation…

He grunted and arched with another climax, and removed his fingers from his port, frowning at them. His interface systems protested, still humming unbearable arousal at him. He overruled them and slid his panel closed, cleaned off as best he could and stalked out into the corridor as Lugnut came the other way. 

“Master!” started Lugnut, and then Megatron’s field hit him and he rocked with the force of it, all five optics going wide. 

“I will be out of communication for the next few days, Lugnut,” he said. “I need time alone to think.”

From the way Lugnut eyeballed him—and no one could eyeball like Lugnut, except maybe Blackarachnia, who had him beat by a few eyeballs— _time alone to think_ was the new worst term for self-service known to the Decepticon Cause. Megatron just glared at him, trying to ignore the threads of his processor proposing just how good it would feel to have Lugnut pin him down and—

Lugnut’s fans clicked on, then choked to a halt as Lugnut forcibly offlined them. “Very wise, master,” he said, sounding strangled. “Thank you for your…glorious forethought.”

_If only Strika and Lugnut liked sharing!_ mourned part of Megatron’s processor, which he mentally stamped on. 

Instead, he nodded at Lugnut and fled the cave.

There was another cave that would afford him some privacy, closer to town, but still fairly isolated, and with thick enough walls that it would mask his output. He headed there, landed, got as far back in the cave as his size allowed, and with murderous determination, set about the task at hand.

 

* * *

 

The base was uninhabitable, and Prowl had the right idea in fleeing. Until Bumblebee and Sari had finished—whatever _extremely_ noisy and calamitous activity they were engaged in!—he wasn’t going to get anything done, including reading the new books on Earth history Professor Sumdac had uploaded onto an Autobot datapad for him. 

Optimus grumbled as he headed out of town, the datapad stowed safely in his cab. He wasn’t as much of a fan of nature as Prowl was, but there was one very nice cave on the northern side of town that would be both dry and private, things that seemed in miserable short supply. 

He futilely flicked his wipers across his windshield again, and groaned. At least he was out of the traffic. 

Half a megacycle later found him trudging up a steep slope to the cave in question, slipping a little in the ice. 

Three quarters of a megacycle later found him getting an opticful of something he had certainly not been trained to deal with at the Autobot Academy. And a ventful. And a field-ful. 

“Erk,” said Optimus, and was pleased with his coherency, because that was _Megatron_ in _his_ cave, looking back at him, _Megatron_ , the slagmaker himself, the Emperor of the Decepticons, the nightmare of the Autobot Cause, the mech he’d seen be blown up and hurled through atmosphere and still live, millions and millions of stellar cycles old, the monster he’d spent his entire function being warned about. 

Looking surprised as pit with several fingers buried in his port and in the midst of one frag of a heat cycle, from the feel of it. For all that he was looking at _Megatron_ , Optimus’s fans were still trying to spin up, and his spike was sending indications that it’d be a really good time to pressurize. 

“ _Really?_ ” said Optimus, looking down at the ground. Whatever deity powered this planet in Primus’s place, it did not like him. “ _Really?!_ I just wanted to _find somewhere to read!_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

It was some minutes later. Optimus was slumped dejectedly at the mouth of the cave. Megatron was busy within.

“Get out of my cave.”

“Since when is it your cave, Autobot?” The growl was punctuated by a moan. Optimus squeezed his optics shut and tried not to think about that moan.

“You’ve got a secret base,” he said. “Use _that._ I found this first.”

“Prove it.”

Oh Primus, he could feel the buzz through his frame from the pheromones. “This is your last warning, Megatron. Get out of my cave, or I will remove you myself.”

“Oh _do_ try.” Grunt. Gasp. Moan. Metal scraped on rock. “I’d,” gasp, “love to see you attempt it. Or better yet, go away and leave me in peace.” Shuffle shuffle. “Or…”

“Or what?” snapped Optimus.

“Or you could come in here and…help me.”

Optimus felt himself go hot to the tips of his audials.

“Come on. One good frag, and the cave’s all yours…”

“I should just arrest you.”

“Oh now, that would hardly be fair.” A perverse gust of wind brought the full scent of him to Optimus, and he took a step forward without even realizing it. “Capturing a helpless mech in the throes of his heat cycle? Oh, how honorable. What a great Prime you are, to be sure.”

“You’re never helpless.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Come on.” Optimus realized his voice was wheedling. “There’s nothing else _dry_ for miles, except the base.”

“Then go back to the base, and stop whining at me.”

“It’s uninhabitable.”

“Not my problem. You failed to instill discipline.”

“It’s _my cave, slaggit Megatron!_ I found it while you were being a disembodied head!” Optimus thought about that accusation a second and added, “Besides, you’re one to lecture about discipline. None of _my_ bots have tried to offline me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Get out of my cave.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’d want it back, Autobot? All these pheromones have…effects.”

“I’ll deal.”

Snarl. “I will shoot you.”

“Funny, they aways taught me that a heat offlines weapons systems.”

Even longer snarl. “I have claws.”

“My cave, Megatron. Get out.”

“I’ve claimed this cave in the name of the Decepticon Empire. Go away, Autobot.”

“My name is Optimus Prime.”

“Look how much I care.”

Silence. 

Then, “It would be so, so simple…”

“What would.”

“A frame my size can take several weeks to complete a heat cycle. You won’t get your precious cave back for weeks, Autobot. I’m not leaving until I’m done.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Earth idiom now? What would Magnus say?”

“Seriously? _Seriously?_ Are you propositioning me?”

“We both have needs, and an easy solution.”

“Frag you. Frag you _so_ much.”

“Yes, that was what I was getting at. Just think of it. You could say you’ve spiked me. What would your comrades say…”

Optimus thought about that. Specifically, about Sentinel’s reaction. “I don’t see my partners as conquests,” he gritted. 

“Oh, so noble. You still thank Primus for every energon cube you get and read the Covenant every night, too?” The sarcasm could have killed a turbofox. 

“Oh shut up,” snarled Optimus, and wished he had something to throw. 

Silence again. 

“Come now, little Autobot. I could…return the favor one day. I’m sure you’d appreciate that. Does any mech on your team know where their spike _is?_ ”

“Don’t be disgusting,” said Optimus, though Megatron had something of a point. His team was very good at repairing spacebridges…but he wasn’t sure he’d trust anyone but Prowl near his equipment, and he had no idea if Prowl was interested. 

Besides, he had a suitable false spike. He just…needed to get the spark up to take it to Ratchet to get it repaired. It hadn’t fared well in the crash. 

He covered his optics with his servos. Megatron was making noises again.

He _should_ just go away, he thought. He eyed the side of the mountain glumly. But Ratchet kept telling him he needed to start standing up for himself, and Primus help him, Prowl and Professor Sumdac agreed. And leaving his favorite reading nook because it was currently full of—oh. Oh. Primus. He shouldn’t have looked. Not that Megatron seemed to mind. He’d fragging winked. But that was going to keep showing up in his recharge fantasies, forever. It was, uh, pretty good, as such things went.

Why had he even looked? Had he expected Megatron to stop being indecent? 

…or had he just…wanted to see?

Optimus groaned and curled over himself.

“You know,” said Megatron, quite conversationally, “this doesn’t render me incapable of consent. Certainly, arousal is… urgent, but it doesn’t turn one into a mechanimal.”

“Don’t you have a tool to deal with that?” The image of Megatron sprawled out on his back, port dripping, danced across Optimus’s visual feed again, and he shook his helm, hard. Slaggit. That was not the sort of thing good Autobots found hot.

“Destroyed along with my ship,” said Megatron. “If you are so uninterested, little Prime, be on your way. The cave will be yours again, in time. I’m sure there are plenty of other options.”

Optimus made a face. 

“Or you could have the frag of your life.” Scrape, scrape, shuffle, moan. What was he _doing_ in there?

“I should just arrest you,” said Optimus. _I wonder, could I drag him out by a thruster?_ He glanced into the cave again.

It wouldn’t work. For one, Megatron was simply too big. For another…

…his proposal did have its upsides. Lots of them. He wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing but…but Megatron might let information slip. Yes. That was a good excuse.

One of Optimus’s fans tried to spin up. He shut it off. 

He was the first to admit that his sexuality wasn’t exactly something he put a lot of thought into. In terms of attractiveness, he was pretty sure he ranked somewhere around one of the Mark IV shuttles, serviceable but not exactly appealing. Besides, it was a distraction. 

That was to say, a chance to frag Megatron wasn’t exactly something he’d ever expected. He almost glanced into the cave yet another time, but the shift of his armor on snow and rock prompted a chuckle from within the cave.

“It’s not like I’m hiding.” Something scraped. “Look all you want, Autobot.” 

Optimus squared his shoulders. No. He was still an Autobot officer, and he would not go in there and betray everything a good officer was supposed to be. The pheromones had to be affecting him. 

Fixing his optics on a distant tree, he started down the mountain, his exit rather marred by catching a rock the wrong way underfoot and stumbling a considerable distance. He reached the road and transformed into vehicle mode, venting hard. 

He glanced up at the cave again, started to drive—and stopped.

He thought about Megatron alone in the cave.

He thought about the sheer misery of an unalleviated heat cycle. 

And about a number of other things no good officer of the Elite Guard should have, including the way Megatron’s fingers slid into his port, the wet sheen of them, the little grunt and twitch as he overloaded. The fact he looked really good panting. And hopelessly aroused. And knuckle-deep in his own port. 

He transformed again and found a large snowbank. When he located one of the requisite size, he sat in it. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is the chapter the warnings told you about. 
> 
> (also, light bondage)

The snowbank helped the physical symptoms, but did nothing for the mental images.

He sat there until he was absolutely sure any last trace of whatever pheromones he might have inadvertently picked up had dissipated, and found there was no difference. Other than the snowbank was much diminished. 

Megatron, Optimus was realizing, was exactly his type. 

Especially offering his port. 

It was providing aid and comfort to the enemy, but if said enemy might provide secrets while in the throes of pleasure… or if it would compromise Megatron on the battlefield in any way, it might be permissible. 

Optimus removed himself from the melted remains of the drift and looked up the mountain again. 

After a moment, he started walking. 

 

* * *

 

Megatron hated to admit it, but his pride was smarting. Rather a lot.

Since when did a handsome young Autobot turn _him_ down? He was Megatron! Powerful, intimidating, the Emperor of Destruction! What part of this spelt _unattractive?_ Especially when he made it clear he was fully interested! And put on a display!

Something that he was most adamantly sure was _not_ a whine left his vocalizer, as another tiny overload rippled through him. 

Autobots liked using their spikes better, didn’t they? Why the rejection?

Perhaps the little Autobot had different preferences. 

He hated to admit this, too, but he was disappointed. Not only did this complicate this heat cycle, but future ones as well. Maybe he needed to kidnap a human and get them to create a false spike. Not Sumdac, though. He hated to think of what the inventor might do with _those_ plans, given his intent dedication to pirating Cybertronian biology. This planet would be awash in hopping interface arrays within hours. 

But yes, not having a repeat of this would be good. This was hardly the first time he’d been without a partner, but it was always annoying and unpleasant and his wrist was sore for weeks afterward. 

He paused. Were those stabilizers coming up the mountain again? He hoped so.

Sure enough, the small blue helm with its hopefully canted audials appeared in the cave entrance, after a few moments followed by the rest of the Autobot. 

He mustered a sneer. “Little Autobot. How _kind_ of you to join me.”

“Look,” said the Autobot, “I have a false spike. If you just need relief and don’t want anything to do with an Autobot, I’ll go get it. I’ll just…want it back.”

Megatron harrumphed. “Unlike some people, I prefer _actual_ partners. Your offer is misdirected.”

The Autobot shrugged. “I only wanted to be sure,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to accept me because it’s the only way to get rid of the heat.”

“How _kind_ ,” he sneered, then rolled his optics. Wonderful, now he was being far less eloquent. The little Autobot would surely smirk over that.

“Ethical,” snapped the Autobot, and stepped fully into the cave. Megatron focused on him and really looked at him. Battle wasn’t particularly conducive to assessing your opponent’s abilities in the berth. 

He was very pretty. And very small. He liked the proportions. He liked the proportions _a lot_. The size was a problem. Not that his valve wouldn’t resize appropriately, but there was a certain something to being pinned down by someone bigger than him. Much more satisfying. 

He shifted his weight, propping himself up on an elbow and drawing the other hand away from his array. “Like what you see?”

 

* * *

 

Optimus looked Megatron over, trying to make it seem slow and deliberate, and hoped he didn’t fail miserably. He had a brief glimpse of biolights gleaming dully within Megatron’s valve, quickly obscured. His spike pressed painfully against his panels. 

With an utmost application of will, he managed to shrug. 

The outrage on Megatron’s face was worth it. 

“I don’t make it a habit to frag Decepticons,” he said, and returned his gaze to Megatron’s valve, which was somewhat easier than looking him in the optics. 

Megatron made a small noise that startled him unreasonably. Had he just moaned? Just from Optimus looking at him?

Optimus smiled. Glanced up at Megatron’s face, in time to see the warlord try to pretend he hadn’t been biting his lip in anticipation. 

“Well? Frag me already,” snapped Megatron.

“Servos over your helm,” said Optimus. “I’m not having you online again and try to kill me.” He debated using the stasis cuffs, but that would be too unpleasant to justify. He instead went for the extra length of rope he kept in his subspace—its usual use was pulling humans out of predicaments he couldn’t use his grapplers in. 

Megatron hesitated a moment, then obeyed. His legs shifted minutely as Optimus walked past him to secure his servos. “Does that pinch any energon lines or cables?”

“No,” said Megatron. “I must say, Autobot, I had thought you too proper for this kind of thing.”

“Practicality.” Optimus checked the knots. “I’m not about to trust you with my continued function.”

Megatron grinned. “Prudent. Now get on with it. You won’t succeed in talking me into overload.”

“Don’t tempt me to test that,” said Optimus. He looked Megatron over. Hardly completely secured, but he’d done the best he could. It bought him some small peace of mind. “Now. If anything is unpleasant, or _for any reason_ you do not wish to continue, you will tell me to stop. Specifically, ‘stop’. Am I understood?”

“Very well. You’ve made me curious.” Megatron shifted himself and tried to look regal and judgmental.

He failed horribly. After a moment, when Optimus didn’t move, he snapped, “Well? Get on with it!”

“Don’t be so impatient,” said Optimus. It was an effort not to laugh, but that would have been cruel. “ _I_ don’t have to follow your orders.”

Megatron snorted. “And here I thought Autobots did nothing else. Every shred of evidence I have points to you having no processors of your own.” He squirmed, hips twitching. “Primus’s spark, Autobot, you’re even less satisfying than my own servos. Lugnut is better in berth than you by _far_.”

Optimus’s optics widened at that mental image. He tried to recover his composure. “Insulting me isn’t going to get you any further, Megatron. Perhaps you should try asking nicely.”

Megatron’s lips skinned back from his dentae in a silent, frustrated snarl. Like hell he’d ask. Optimus began to count to ten; he’d move forward and start regardless of Megatron’s lack of response at the end of it.

Megatron watched him with narrowed optics. After ten seconds or so, he let out a long ventilation. “Please?” he said, very quietly, and it was only with an effort Optimus kept the shock off his faceplates.

Megatron saw it anyway, and canted his hips in invitation, spreading his legs further to put his valve on full display. 

“Good,” said Optimus. He released his panel after a moment, running a servo up and down his own length. Megatron’s optics followed it. 

“Very good,” Optimus said, somewhat breathless, and came up level to Megatron, taking his servo from his spike and kneeling between Megatron’s spread legs. The difference in size between their arrays was not as bad as he’d feared, and he reached to touch the warlord’s nub, gleaming bright with arousal. 

Megatron gasped and arched at the contact, shuddering. Optimus wondered how long he’d already been in heat; he seemed incredibly sensitive. 

Fragging Megatron into a strutless shivering heap suddenly seemed like an achievable goal. 

He rubbed the node, then circled the opening of Megatron’s valve, returned to the node and rubbed, gentle but firm. Yes, that was definitely a whimper, and Megatron twitched and squirmed. His valve calipers fluttered, desperate for a spike.

Optimus bent and licked, then sucked. 

Megatron’s stabilizers jerked and he let out a strangled shout, bowing in the grasp of a minor overload. Nothing near satisfying, most likely, and that shout turned into muted whines as Optimus continued his ministrations, and then into full-throated blasphemy when his vocalizer reset. 

Optimus hadn’t realized there were so many foul terms in the language for _slagging torturer._  

When Megatron paused, he slid a finger into him, and started playing with his internal nodes. 

“Don’t you think the heat has done enough of that, you sparkless fragger?” snarled Megatron above him. Optimus looked up at him and snickered. The vibrations made Megatron’s optics go white with charge. 

He sat up again. “If you insist,” he said, removed his hand from Megatron’s valve, and stroked himself.

He put a hand on Megatron’s hip and lined up with his valve.

 

* * *

 

Megatron panted. He supposed the Autobots weren’t quite as uptight as he’d suspected, because _P_ _rimus_ this little slagger was having far too much fun teasing—no, _torturing—_ him. Most of his usual partners would have bent him over the nearest surface, pinned him helplessly, and fragged him silly. This tiny Autobot had just… bound him and _teased_ him, and it made him feel far more claimed and possessed than rough handling ever had. 

He quite liked it. In this context, of course. If the little Autobot thought this in any way gave him special rights over Megatron out of berth, Megatron would reduce him to his component atoms. Slowly. 

A spike nudged against his valve, a surprisingly nicely sized spike for an Autobot, and a hard hand pressed over his hip. “Look at me,” said the Autobot, and he obeyed, shouted as the Autobot shoved in. 

And paused, the little slagger. Megatron put his helm down and panted helplessly, valve working around the spike in him. He tried to move, met with a low chuckle and a hand on his hip. “Stay still. No wiggling.”

Megatron cursed him. Loudly and foully and with all the imagination of millennia spent among soldiers. 

The only response he got was a snicker. 

 


End file.
